Encounter on London Bridge

Later that night, when the last drunk had sleazed home and the tang of booze and urine hung over the pavement, he started to walk across London Bridge.
Noticing a black beetle-like car approaching, his heart skipped a beat – The Police! The vehicle cruised to a stop and a metallic voice rang out.
“Who are you and where are you going?”
“Who, me? Just walking home.”
A blinding spotlight stung his eyes. “Get in the car,” the voice blared.
“Why, what have I done?”
“Get in the car,” the voice blared again, louder this time and he heard a menacing trigger-like click.
He got into the car which smelt of cigarettes and vomit. There was no driver. On a screen a humanoid face appeared. “Address?”
“Why, C-Carlton Street, n-number four.”
The car careened through darkened streets filled with emptiness.
It finally screeched to a halt outside a grand well-lit town house. The car door unlocked itself, he stepped out and the vehicle hurtled off into the night.
The front door opened, throwing out a river of light, and a woman dressed in white furs appeared. “Daahling, where were you? I was just about to call the police…”

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